Requiem of the Past
by KikkoPirate
Summary: A broken childhood, lost and forgotten. A story of a boy who in truth, we really no nothing about, yet we ponder and let our imaginiations wander. (A story based on the ragtag orphan Brook from Film Z.)
1. Chapter 1

He pushed the bridge of the glasses farther up his sharp nose, holding them in place with a finger so as to keep them from sliding off their high perch. He rested a fist upon his hip and while shifting his weight, leaned his lank body all to one side until his hipbone was partially sticking out in the air. Brook cracked a smile at the pouty, melodramatic thirteen year old that was himself, his thin body shivering with laughter, and flashed the mirror a grin so wide, it nearly took up half of his face. "I like 'em," he beamed, turning this way and that, to a point where he might as well have been swaying to a tune that everybody else in the store seemed oblivious to.

"Hey!" came a gruff voice, snapping Brook's attention away from his reflection. "How many times have I told you to scram!" A man twice his size, even with the unnatural growth spurts the teen had been going through the past couple of months, emerged from behind the tall shelf Brook wouldn't deny he had been hiding behind in an attempt to conceal himself from the very man's sight. He had a nasty scowl upon his face, a broom held tightly in one of his ginormous fists, suspiciously eyeing the merchandise that sat atop the boy's nose. Brook however produced him a sunny smile, one that was tender and delighted as if he had just recognized a friend he had not seen in years. "Too many to count, shopkeeper-san," he chuckled good-naturedly, and with a theatrical bow, respectfully lowered his head to the owner.

"Why you-" The man, who obviously took the boy's remark as something of a curt reply, his kind smile and mannerly gesture as a mocking attempt to embarrass him further, raised his broom into the air and without the slightest hint of remorse, brought it down upon the poor boy's unsuspecting head. The force was so powerful, let alone enough to have probably snapped his skinny frame in two, that Brook felt the cool metal of the glasses slide and fly off his nose while he teetered and held his hands out in front of him to keep himself from falling flat on his face. He had managed. He just wished he could've said the same for the shades. The clatter of the fine obsidian circles instantly shattering within their silver frames upon impact was like change falling to the ground.

Brook stared at the dark glass scattered about his feet, stunned and unsure of what to do next except slowly lift his head to meet the murderous gaze of the shopkeeper whose face was so red, he was sure it would burst at any given moment. "You little bastard!" The man erupted and threw his broom to the ground, taking a swipe at Brook, who scarcely ducked in time to avoid the meaty hand that aimed to seize and wring his skinny neck. "I'm terribly sorry!" He performed a quick but sincere nod of the head and bolted out the door in a panic. "Get back here and pay for this! Thief! THIEF!" he heard the shopkeeper yell after him, but knew well enough that the man would rather gnaw off his own leg before he left his moneymaking establishment unguarded let alone potential customers.

It was like this every now and then. Brook would enter the small outlet that resided just on the outskirts of the kingdom, pretending as though he could actually afford the opulent and sumptuous marvels that sat atop the high shelves let alone the dust off the floor, only to be gradually chased out by the burly shopkeeper whose strict store policy was either have your money ready or get lost. But besides that small fact, Brook would rather be scolded and hit over the head with a broom any day if it meant being acknowledged. At least then he could take refuge in the small comfort that all those slurs and accusations were for him and him alone; the pain that all seemed to be rushing from the back of his head to reinforce and convince him that he was in fact alive, that he wasn't just some insignificant nothing like so many had referred to him before.

"If I am truly nobody," he would reassure himself, "then why do I have a voice? A brain that thinks for itself? A path that is only meant for me to follow?" He had heard the quote said many years ago, but couldn't quite recall its source. A book? Maybe his father? His mother? A great uncle perhaps? Brook liked to think he once had a big family, one that loved and adored him. Unfortunately, memories seemed to evade him like that of the people of the town ever since he'd woken up one morning in a pile of rock, rubble, and ash, disoriented and sick to his stomach with one hell of a nasty gash running down his forehead. Regardless, he held dearly to the quotation, for it was the only thing he could truly call his.

Brook began to loose momentum, not to mention his breath, as he rounded yet another corner just to be on the safe side. A size and a half too small and shaped so narrowly that the limited amount of space pinched his toes and gave him blisters, his worn out and rather tattered shoes, that he was sure were originally made for a woman, clomped against the stone pavement as he finally stumbled to a stop, his feet heavy with exhaustion. He leaned up against the old-fashioned brickwork of a worn building, clutching the dirty red blocks of the wall with a hand for support as his lungs greedily gasped at the air around him, when a flash of yellow caught his eye. He knit his brow as his eyes focused on a strand of straw dangling from one of his raven black curls. He plucked it from his hair and stared at the piece of straw in his palm, his expression impassive as he delicately stroked it with finger. And of all the things he could have done next, crush it in frustration for example or simply toss it to the ground without so much as giving it another thought, instead brought it close to his chest and began smiling, a smile tinged with a tad of wistfulness, but with a mirth so genuine and pure, men could only dream of achieving such happiness. He began to chuckle, a low bubbly sound that arose from his belly, which made his laughter all the more rich, a type of mirth he would soon find to be rather contagious amongst others. "A bastard, eh?" He began to entertain the idea. "Maybe." He twirled the sliver of gold between his thumb and index finger, watching on in amusement as it did a lively dance. "But a thief." The piece of straw halted its whimsical whirling, Brook's laughter draining from the air and smile suddenly disappearing. "Now that is a very high presumption."

He maybe couldn't remember his own mother's face, but he did know one thing, and that was that he was a gentleman and a gentleman did not _steal_. He leaned his back up against the dusty bricks, arms crossed and expression tight with aggravation, but the bitterness didn't last for very long. That just wasn't Brook's style. His features softened and through his nose, Brook let out a lofty sigh. What was the point of getting himself all worked up? Not like he could do much about it anyway. He cocked his head back and looked up at the dimmed sky that seemed to be growing grayer by the minute. "Why must I continue to live on like this?" he questioned the clouds, "How much longer must I wait?" He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, on the gentle breeze that tussled his curls, like the familiar feeling of loving fingers carding through his untamed hair. "No," he said aloud to himself, his grin returning bigger and brighter than ever. "Good things are bound to come my way. I can feel it!"

Unfortunately the moment of contentment lasted for but a few brief seconds, for Brook suddenly startled and blinked disconcertedly as something cold and wet hit his forehead with a bit of a drive. At first he just thought someone had spit on him as a sort of cruel joke from one of the high balconies the building possessed. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time. But, no. Instead the boy went cross-eyed as he watched a pure little crystal of water run down his nose. "Ah!" He wiped at his nose with a patched sleeve before looking up at the dark ominous clouds that loomed over him like a familiarly intimidating shopkeeper-san with a broom, only this time to be hit directly under the eye. "Ack! I better find some shelter!" He shielded the unruly mess of black curls atop his head with his arms, running down the street with haste as the rain began to pick up and hit the ground at a faster pace. "Wouldn't want to catch a cold! Yoho~"

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**My gift to a certain nutty, amiable, charming, good-humored, and all around pervy skeleton. Happy Birthday Brook!**


	2. Chapter 2

A cold no, but pneumonia yes. Not long after the rain had begun to drench the earth, Brook had found a small boathouse just a little ways from port. It was cold, damp, and dirty, but better then directly sleeping out in the freezing rain. Fall had begun only a couple of weeks ago, though the weather wasted no time chilling the air around him and making nights almost unbearable. However, when the sun finally reared itself from behind the clouds the following morning, and while Brook would have been amongst the first to greet the returning warmth with open arms and a smile so wide it could rival the sky, he instead stayed locked away within the dingy shed, unable to really move at all. Sometime during the course of the frigid night, he had managed not only to have developed a nasty cough but a fever of 105. But how could he know this? Brook had gotten sick plenty of times over the years, his own personal cure usually just thinking positive and waiting it out. But even with all the optimism the boy possessed, he couldn't deny that something was terribly wrong.

He sat at the very far end of the shed, back up againt the soggy wall, body aching, cheeks burning with the flush of fever, with a very uncomfortable draft running down his neck. A window was above him, slightly ajar, which would explain why he'd woken up soaked. He would have cried for help, but there was no strength in his voice, just a whisper, not that anyone would come to his aid anyhow. Brook was an outcast and he'd accepted that fact long ago. His breath quivered in short, quick gasps every time he inhaled, his lungs having no choice but to painfully and rigidly take in the air around him. He couldn't seem to stop shaking either. Sometimes it was rough, other times he could manage, but every time he'd get close to sleep, a new spell of violent shaking would force him awake. "I'll get better. I'll get better," he repeated to himself, feebly rubbing away at his arms in a sickly attempt to cease the unsettling chill that continued to run down his spine and made his skin crawl.

Brook curled into himself, his thin frame quivering, though this time from anger. He couldn't die yet! In fact he refused! "I'll get-" He could feel his body beginning to slump to one side. In a panic, Brook kicked and screamed, snarled and punched at the air, or at least in his mind he did, but even that was starting to get old to a point where he began to plead with his body, begging it to get better one last time and he'd promise to never get sick again, though his efforts were in vain. His vision swam as blotches of black ate away at his sight. This was so unfair. Nothing good had happened to him yet. He had waited so long. What was the point of his living all this time? Maintaining his life so he could finally make something good of it? Brook felt the chilling bite of the stone floor against his cheek as his body sank to the ground. He didn't even have the strength to sit up anymore. His eyes focused on a single pale splotch where the stone was discolored and stained. Then they locked. He could no longer close his eyelids. Brook whimpered, the last sound before his throat swelled shut, hot tears rolling down his flushed cheeks as he silently cried. Death was taking him and he could _feel_ it. "I'm sorry." He mouthed the words over and over. He wasn't sure to whom or even what he was apologizing for. It just hurt, so he had to say it. "I'm sorry. I'm sor-"

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**I made myself cry. Sorry for the short chapter, but must I really carry on...please don't make me.**


	3. Chapter 3

A dark, dark red. He had mistaken it for black at first, but eventually saw the blended color. Death was neither cold nor cruel like most would have suspected. It embraced him, wiped away his tears and gently stroked at the gnarled scar that mangled his forehead with more warmth and love than he had felt from anyone in a long while. However, this seemed to make him remember. It wasn't exactly painful, but it wasn't happy either. He could remember waking up that morning, surrounded by gray destruction, not having so much as a clue as to what had occurred. He could remember the irritable stinging and watering of his eyes as he wiped at the crimson that continually ran from his forehead and into his eyes. He could remember jumping back from the reflection of a dingy puddle in horror as a bloody mess of a boy stared back at him. Brook was only eight then and though he knew the injury was serious and literally felt like hot coals melting away at his skin, figured it best to leave it alone. And so it healed, but in all the wrong ways to a point where the tissue had clumped and knotted together, leaving the boy looking like a real monster, infected and diseased. Sometimes that scar could really ache and hurt him, both physically and emotionally, but nothing seemed to hurt anymore. He felt easy, at peace, warm.

Maybe a little too warm. Brook shifted uneasily as his delusion of "no pain" rippled. When he attempted to turn on his side, a light stabbing, like that of a knife pointed into his skin, could be felt just below his ribs which only grew more and more intense as he tried to roll further. He found it easier to just return to laying flat on his back. Dark lashes fluttered as he began to make shapes from the dusky burgundy that surrounded him. Rafters, he noted. He was looking up at the rafters of a ceiling. He tried to sit up, but instantly fell back in pain. There was a weight on his chest, or so it felt like it, crushing his lungs. "Wouldn't sit up if I were you." The boy startled at the sudden rough voice and jumped to his left only to hit the temple of his head against the hard wood of a wall. Brook sharply sucked at the air through his teeth as he hunched over and clutched his head, not even bothering to put an ounce of concern into the weighted aching he felt in his lungs. This pain was far worse. Had he had his eyes open this entire him? Was he asleep? No wait, he was dead. Do the dead dream? He didn't know the rules.

A faint pop and crackle made him suddenly sit up straight, alert and watchful, though he never removed his hands from his throbbing head. The room was dimly lit, though Brook slightly relaxed when he discovered a fire burning in the corner. In a hearth of stone it weakly danced and flickered, seeming to be the only source of light. He could hardly make out anything, it was so dark. Just shapes. A bookshelf. Maybe a chair.

He let a hand drop from his head while the other continued to nurse his sure-to-be-bruise, though it startled when it came into contact with something soft. Brook was jumpier than a fish on deck. But just like before, he relaxed, finding it only to be a large hand-stitched quilt, covering him from his waist on down. In fact, he was in a bed, pillow and all.

"Let me see." The gruff voice sounded yet again, only this time to be frightfully closer than before. Brook's eyes flicked to the bedside where a man's head, just a head mind you, seemed to appear out of nowhere, a thin stick cigar held tightly between his teeth. The end glowed red, igniting the man's face with an eeriness the boy just couldn't handle at the moment. Without so much as a second thought, Brook bounced back in fear, almost seeming to have forgotten of the wall he had just crashed into only moments before, though this time a large hand caught the back of his head before it had a chance to collide with the dark wood. "Hey." The grizzled man sternly took Brook by the jaw, a humongous hand clutching each side of his face so the boy had nowhere else to look except at him. "I know you're scared, but calm it. You're starting to get on my nerves." He gave him one last hard look, a stare that was neither searching nor agitated but intimidating none the less, with argent eyes that shone like dull silverware in the fire's subtle glow.

Squatting back down, he attentively turned the boy's face as to get a better look. Ah, so he'd been crouching, Brook thought. What a relief! And here he thought he had run into some decapitated demon of the undead. The man carefully traced the tender flesh, the boy cringing every so often when his large thumb ran over the precise spot of impact. If anything, he seemed to be feeling more than looking. His eyes gently crinkled as if he were going to smile, but it never came. "You may get a bump, but I think you'll make it." His tone was playful, but without a smile to accompany it, Brook just couldn't seem to produce him one of his own. Instead he stared, wide-eyed and curious, watching the man as he picked himself up and sauntered over to the other side of the room.

He was tall. Around maybe 6'7, a good foot away from where Brook currently was in height. How refreshing to be the small fry for once. He carried with him a thick, sweet smell like smoking cherry wood, but was in no means frail or sickly looking from the slim cigar Brook had a sneaking suspicion was part of the man's daily aspect. Stocky and well built, he strode with the utmost confidence, but with a gentle, knowledgable expression that revealed the sixty-eight years this man had spent and endured in the world. Yes, he could see the wear and tear. The crow's feet plowed in the corner of his sunken eyes that reminded him of the shape of stones rolled by the ocean. The fine scar that ran past his left eyebrow, stopping just above his eyelid. The creases in the corner of his mouth that Brook hoped were worn from a smile rather than a frown. Oh, how he hoped.

A strike and a hiss. "Shit!" Brook snapped his head in the direction of a dark corner where the man's face hazily glowed. He was just a head again, sucking on detached fingers that seemed to belong to no one in particular. At his feet, the dying orange firefly of a match that had singed his fingertips while he failed to light an oil lamp in the darkness. "Oi, mind if I turn on a few lamps now that you're awake?" The boy squinted through the darkness as he held up what looked to be some sort of kerosene lamp, the tin handle clanking between his fingers.

Brook looked at him funny. Wasn't this his house? Why was he asking him for permission? The boy's eyes however suddenly went wide. Something wonderful dawned upon him. "Uh, y-yes. T-Thank you," he stuttered out, afraid he had taken too long to answer. That's why it had been so dark. The man had turned off all the lights because Brook was sleeping. He had been asleep. He wasn't dead.

That last realization was almost enough to get him to start smiling again, but the man's voice interrupted. "I reopened that scar of yours and stitched it up properly," he nonchalantly began as he drifted about the room, lighting each lamp with ease once he got the first to light. What a way to start a conversation. Brook furrowed his brow, his expression torn between a mild panic and utter confusion, while the words "mad doctor", "experiments", and "brain transfusion" raced through his head. He would totally flip if he started barking like a dog or, or what if all of the sudden he began to crave human flesh?! That was the imagination of a thirteen year old for ya.

Brook remained quiet. He couldn't seem to manage words, only terrible, terrible thoughts. _M-My scar? He operated on my head?!_ He fearfully reached for his forehead only to realize for the first time there was in fact some sort of cloth wrapped around his head, his fingertips gingerly tracing over the tight fabric of bandaging and gauze. His alarm however waned. From dreadful fear, to an irritable realization, and then a cranky pout, the boy began to fidget uncomfortably. _It's so snug. _He wiggled a finger under one of the bandages. _Maybe if I just loosen it a little…_ With his back to the boy, the man suddenly faltered while in the middle of igniting yet another lamp, as if when a mother senses her child in danger. "So don't pick at my work, and I won't pick on you." Brook swiftly put his hand back in his lap. I wasn't doing anything, he thought innocently to himself.

With the last lamp flickering wildly on the edge of a table, the very spot where Brook assumed the man had been sitting the first time his deep, husky voice had sounded, he dragged a chair to the boy's bedside and sat. And so the questioning began. "Tell me, boy." He leaned forward in his chair, placing his folded hands in front of his mouth so that his elbows could rest comfortably atop his knees. "How long you've been living like this?"

Brook tensed. He had heard from the other kids living on the streets that if you were asked this question, you would have to play it off as if you had a mom and dad. Couldn't accomplish much if you got locked up in some orphanage. "I don't-" he began, but the man's steely eyes tightened just as he were to start the lie. He didn't look like he was really in the mood for any bullshit. "Five years," the boy admitted. "I can't quite tell you what my life was like before. I don't remember." Brook had never been a good liar anyway.

The corners of the man's mouth perked from behind his folded fingers. "Well then!" With a good-natured smile, the first Brook had ever seen, he leaned back in his chair, arms nonchalantly perched along the crest rail. "I'm surprised you remember anything at all let alone have the capability to breath. From when I reopened the wound, I saw that your skull took quite the blow as well."

_What a sudden change in charac- Wait._ "I cracked my head open?!" Brook blurted out, his voice reaching a whole other octave, while he clutched the sides of his head as if that were to hold his skull in place.

The man grinned widely at his response, the cigar caught between his teeth tipping up to the ceiling. "That's right, Humpty. It's amazing you didn't die from a brain hemorrhage. You must be one hell of a hardheaded kid."

Brook couldn't help but feel as though that last comment was the old man's way of trying to make him laugh, and he wouldn't deny the bashful smile that made his nose scrunch in a charming little manner. "Yohoho~" came his gentle laughter.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Yohoho?" he asked humorously, a chuckle not far behind. The amusement that lit up in his eyes was impossible to miss.

Brook placed a hand over his mouth, desperate to maintain the laughter so many had scoffed at before, but it tickled to hold it in. Most of the time it was embarrassing, for he knew no other way to laugh, but the way this man looked at him, the way he grinned, gazing at him with a fondness Brook had only seen in the eyes of fathers and mothers, made him feel as if he could laugh all day long. He suddenly faltered though. "Wait, are you a doctor?" Putting "mad" in front of the word would be rude, he decided. Such was the little gentleman's morals.

The man's zestful smile withered. He stiffened like starch, jaw locked, eyes dimming. With arms crossed tightly over his chest, he shifted his gaze to some other part of the room. Brook must have hit a sore spot. "Used to be," he gruffly answered. "A ship's doctor, but that was a long time ago."

The conversation went so South, Brook could practically feel it snowing. Any comfort the boy had begun to build up curdled. If he didn't change the subject soon, he might lose his head. "How long have I been asleep?" he timidly inquired, afraid to meet with those bleak, flinty eyes.

The man took a long drag on his cigar, seeming to still be dwelling on the earlier fact. Brook felt guilty for ever bringing it up. He exhaled thoughtfully. "About three days." The smoked trailed past his lips as he spoke. "First day I treated your pneumonia, second day I broke your fever, and today I performed a minor surgery on that rock-hard noggin of yours. You've been resting a lot easier since, but I wouldn't say your completely better. I'd give it two, maybe three mor-"

The boy's voice cut him off. "Thank you." Brook was looking down at the hands in his lap, ashamed to look anywhere else. The bed that kept him comfortable, the fire that kept him warm, the man who kept him alive. "A monster like me-" He tried to smile, as if he found the word "monster" to be a joke, but his lips quivered and dropped. "Just some insignificant brat who can barely hold his own." Why was he saying these things? He knew what these words did to him, so why admit them now? "Most would have just left me to die." Something dripped, falling onto the back of his hand. Brook tightened his fists. "You have no idea how much this means to me." He shook his head, unsure of whether he were trying to deny his tears, or the fact that he was still alive to have tears at all. "Thank you! Thank you so much!" He brought his fists to his eyes, pressed hard, grit his teeth, anything to stop the swell of emotions. He was usually so good at this. Why not now? One by one the creases between his fingers seeped a clear, wet sorrow that Brook just couldn't seem to hold back any longer. He took in a sharp, unsteady breath but it stuck in his throat. If he let it out now, he might never get it back.

A gentle hand placed itself upon the boy's quivering back. The misfortunate memories. How they rushed at him. Instead of vanishing through this one simple act of tenderness, they resurfaced, overwhelmed him, seeming to strike him across the face with a bitterness he could no longer afford to forget, to push to the very back of his mind. He curled farther into himself, unwilling to show his face. He would go insane, completely lose it if he found he were dead, if this was all but a cruel dream. But not even in his dreams had anyone ever shown him such kindness, which is why this was so hard, made his heart hurt so much. "You don't get to cry much, do you?"

Whenever Brook thought back to that moment, he could never quite recall why those words had cut him so deeply. They made his blood run hot, hurt him like a devastating betrayal, one that made his heart ache with the hatred he developed for the world and everyone in it since day one. Brook let out a harrowing wail, one that lasted until all the breath in him was gone and his lungs seemed to shrivel. "I can't!" He screamed out of a desperate malice that had been wanting to crawl its way up his throat for some time, sobbing with a loneliness that could break any heart. "One who is always smiling, stays happy, is to have a light heart and is surely to be rewarded!" He had betrayed himself, broken the very promise he swore to keep no matter how horrible his life or terrible the situation. Keep a stiff upper lip. Remain positive. The curtains must never be drawn to a close. But in fact he had never been acting, just pushing. Pushing all the bad that he could, so that there was only room for the good. What was he to do now though, except feel the hate, loathing, and hostility? But even that would be lie. Brook knew this. He felt none of it. He was just sad, so he cried.

It was unnerving. Watching this boy rip himself in two. Thankful yet ungrateful, content yet yearning, loving yet seething, so sure yet so lost. The emotional scarring of this kid had certainly taken its toll. He had seen it in him the day he'd found the boy. Scrawny and malnourished, with a body temperature as cold as the stone floor and fogged sea glass eyes, like he'd literally frozen from the inside out, that revealed what little of a life the boy had led. And though he neither moved nor breathed, he watched the ceaseless flow of tears that ran from his unclosing, unseeing eyes, like heavy rain against the chilled glass of a window. He couldn't leave him like that. Alone with that painful expression. And so he pounded, revived the small fluttering baby bird that resided in the boy's chest, relieved to when those big eyes swelled with fresh tears as he coughed and choked on the vomit that surged past his lips and onto the man himself. A small price to pay, for he just couldn't bring himself to be angry with the boy. Instead he embraced him, wiped away his tears, and gently stroked the gnarled scar that mangled his forehead, for the gangly little thing in his arms gave him a purpose once more.

The man blinked as a new, fresh fit of raspy coughing broke the stupor he had unknowingly slipped into. Right. He had a neurotic crying boy to tend to. Damn mind, always straying away when he needed it most. Sometimes he really did wonder if it was unraveling. That's what old age did to you, right? With large, thoughtful hands, he took ahold of Brook's shivering shoulders. "Hey. You need to calm down." The boy was a hysterical mess, head heedlessly bobbing in accordance with each sob that got caught in his throat. He was sucking at the air as if each breath were his last. Brook wouldn't allow that to happen. Not **_ever_** again. "You're not in the right condition to be throwing a fit like this." It did hurt. The aching and stabbing he felt in his lungs and the shortness of breath was, if anything, a little more than uncomfortable. He would try to calm down.

The weeping subsided, but the panting remained. At least it was a start. "There you go." The man rubbed his back, Brook finding comfort in the tender spiral that went round, before the hand came back up to give him a gentle, reassuring squeeze at the base of his neck. "Try to get some rest." The man spoke softly, his voice a gentle hum. "You think you can do that?" He found himself smiling when the boy nodded in silent obedience. "Good."

With that, the hand left his neck, and though Brook couldn't say he wasn't content with the kindness he had been shown, a new want and need nagged at him, an answer he had not yet received to a question that had yet to be asked. "Wait." Brook wiped and rubbed at his eyes, trying his best to get ahold of the terrible fit of gasping that made his words jump and chest spastically heave. "What's your name?"

The man smiled. All that talking, and not once had they uttered their names to each other. "Kenichi." He smiled a bit wider, unable to help the laugh that jumped in his throat when he half-jokingly asked, "And do you have a name or did you forget that too?"

Brook snorted, smothering his face into his hands in an attempt to stifle his snickering. He couldn't help himself this time. With snot running down his nose and plump tears sliding off his dark, long lashes, the boy finally looked up, but with the goofiest grin Kenichi had ever seen. That silly smile, along with the messy sight of a boy crying his eyes out while giggling like a big idiot, was absolutely laughable, only to make him look all the more ridiculous when he hiccuped in the midst of his sobbing and smiling. "Brook!" he bubbled out amongst a fit of his own contagious laughter. Saying his name had never felt so sweet. "My name is Brook!"

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**AN: Well, there's chapter 3...yep. Um, the storie's sorta hazy in my mind at the moment. I mean, it's there, but just really jumbled up and knotted. It may take me a while to sort out the details, so updates will probably be slow. If somehow I don't continue, I'll leave it up to you, the reader, to use that brilliant brain of yours and play out the rest of this story to your heart's content (or at least until Oda reveals Brook's childhood...better start thinking fast!).**

**Originally inspired by this song: Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence by Ryuchi Sakamoto**


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